Buried Coals
by randomcat23
Summary: Takes place during 5x10 "Them." Daryl talks to Carol while the group takes refuge from the storm, encouraging her to feel it. And, of course, he's the one to hold her when she does.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Walking Dead!

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They take refuge behind walls of decades old wood infused with cow stench. Off the road and out of the rain, it is a blessing to just stand with a barrier to their backs instead of the gaping woods. Shoulders collectively slump. Heavy bags droop to the ground. Weary eyes look upward as if rediscovering that they can. Rain patters endlessly off the metal roof, never earning entry.

Trampled by foot and hoof, the ground is more hay than dirt, but everyone welcomes its embrace against their worn out bodies. Tara and Rosita lay down in a musty stall, firelight dancing over their eyelids. Maggie cradles her elbows, her head on Glenn's shoulder. Close to the fire, Rick huddles with his family, making sure to occasionally run a hand through Carl's hair or kiss Judith's head. A stoic and reassured Abraham guards the door, alcohol bottle loose in his hand.

Quiet chatter is exchanged, its makers just remembering how to talk about something other than death. Dry and warm, someone allows a small laugh. They all leap on the chance to bandage blisters, rub aches, and steady themselves in who they had left at their sides. The wind howling at the door does nothing to damage the calming stillness found beneath the expanse of wooden beams and in each other's arms.

Peering over this scene of precious peace, the last thing Carol wants to do is disturb it with the war in her head.

Therefore, after their small meal and Rick's speech, she tucks herself away in a far stall. The strong front she wore all day falls away, exposing a storm raging behind her eyes much like the one outside. They may be in the backwoods of Virginia, but she can't escape the click and bang of a gun in a meadow bursting with wildflowers or the last snarl her daughter ever emitted.

She shivers against the wall.

The first time she lost her little girl, she had fled from that barn and abandoned her old self. That time, she had picked through her busted heart and rekindled the parts that Ed had squashed under his massive fists. The teasing side, the inner strength. The will to make her own decisions, to stand up for herself.

This time around there would be no rebirth. No strong arms held her back from self-destruction. With Tyreese dead, no one was left with which to share the loss. Mika and Lizzie were nobody's failure but her own. That was why she withheld herself from the rest of the group. That was why her only companion was a lonely bale of decaying hay.

The group had just renewed their hope in living and, she, doused in the shadow of grief, slunk away. Let them revel in this blessing. Let them rest. They deserve to sit and laugh without her tainting it with trouble. Besides, if she separated herself now, it would be easier when she finally found the chance to slip away for good.

Maybe into the night while they slept.

Maybe the next time she went to fetch water.

Maybe-

"-ey."

She flinches as something grazes her chin and the dismal thoughts scatter.

"Carol?"

She blinks and her dazed eyes focus on Daryl, his hand raised a fraction over her skin.

Carols jerks out of reach with a muffled apology and the silent hope that it would be enough to send him away.

Unshaken, Daryl only observes her slowly through narrow slits. Legs wide in the doorway, shoulders broad, he shields her from any prying eyes (Not that anyone is looking for her). He gestures to the fading green and yellow on her right collarbone. Tired, her head shakes once. Carol shifts her shirt collar closer to her neck and does her best to disappear into the wall.

Without a word, Daryl drops to the dirt floor next to her. The stall is instantly crowded, but the heat of him does not register on her skin. Despite what he had declared in Atlanta, she is nothing but ashes; there isn't anything left in her to burn.

Rick's earlier declaration that they are the walking dead struck a resounding chord.

A clap of thunder crashes, the faster lightning still illuminating the nooks and crannies of the structure. The walls stand firm. So does Daryl's presence, his head turned enough to look her over without crossing the line into open questioning.

Desperate for something mundane to talk about, Carol tilts her head with what she hopes looks like a genuine smile. "Good work finding this place."

Daryl nods but doesn't speak, choosing instead to pick at the dry skin around his thumb. They are all filthy from weeks on the road, but somehow his layer of dirt now looks more like armor than scum, a testament to how far he has come. The downtrodden man from this morning has been replaced with a confident one.

It's then she notices the fresh wound on the web of his left hand. Carol gasps, recognizing the pucker of a cigarette burn.

He sheepishly drops his hand when he catches her looking. "Tired of failin' people," Daryl drawls with a flick of his wrist.

There is no excuse in his tone. He isn't justifying the self-harm; it was simply something he felt needed done. (Of course he literally burned away his grief.) Carol curls her hand around his forearm, her lashes wet. "I know."

Under the fringe of his hair there are deep lines on his forehead and his eyelids sag, but he's still alive, he's still fighting. There's a startling brightness in his irises. That strength convinces her the group will be alright. They will all emerge from this barn tomorrow nearly whole and filled with vitality and hope. And when she inevitably leaves, he will take care of them, in ways much like he did today by finding this sanctuary.

Life will go on.

Even though she can't bring herself to participate anymore, Carol nods, comforted by his recovery and the group's imminent resurgence.

The firelight barely reaches them here, the stall more shadow than not. But she can hear the crack and pop of the damp logs and the crinkling of an opened food wrapper. A waft of smoky air smolders down her throat.

Daryl breaks through her ponderings with a shoulder nudge. "Earlier, when ya said ya can't let yourself feel it...what is it?"

Her momentary reassurance dissipates. Her throat tightens, his question unexpected and, quite frankly, unwanted. It's an invasion against the truce she thought they had signed.

Although Daryl had become a permanent fixture to her side since Terminus, he had not pressed her about before, about what happened after the prison fell. She had given nothing up the night of their shared watch, nor again when it was brought up on their search for Beth. Daryl, to his credit, had let it go, and she had silently thanked him for it at the time.

She had not been ready to lay her beaten soul out for all to see, especially not him.

Then, after everything in Atlanta and the desperation required to survive on the road, it seemed the window to discuss it had slammed shut. Newer losses piled up on old ones. If she didn't take the chance to talk about it then, it was a lost cause now. This world wasn't kind enough to bestow time to linger on old wounds.

Bob.

Beth.

Tyreese.

All fresher than her own troubles.

Her chance to share had burned up a long time ago.

These last few weeks were everyone else's turns to mourn. So Carol had resigned to carrying her losses alone. It would be her toxic secret, her penance for a child's murder. After weeks and hundreds of miles, she isn't even sure if she ever possessed the strength to confess the crime. (She had almost been relieved when Tyreese insisted they forget it because all she wanted to do was erase the memory from existence.)

"Nothing." The dismissal both settles her nerves and shakes her resolve. She hugs her shins and tucks her chin in between her knees. Perhaps the third time is the charm. Perhaps this is the last time he will breech the subject. Then she won't have to think about it again and be tempted to burden him.

Carol winces when Daryl presses, "Ya said you had to forget it. Why?"

"Why are you asking?" She shoots back, eyes darting this way and that, looking for any signs of disturbance to the others' quiet forms. It hurts to look at him, like a thousand needles piercing her skin, so she welcomes the ache that comes from keeping her neck twisted the other way. "I don't want to talk about it. I told you, I can't."

Daryl drums one finger over his kneecap, a noise that has no business grating on her, yet it drives her to clench her jaw. "I see you pullin' away, nestled back here like a frightened animal."

The laugh she tries to force out collapses, its remnant a hitch in her voice, "I'm just exhausted, Daryl. Like everyone else. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to find a place to sleep."

Carol stands, shaking straw off her pants with a few trembling swipes. Him prodding dangerous pains with everyone so content and so near has only weakened her defenses. The budding ache to join in that recovery makes Carol curse. She should know better; this world only whittles away at you, it never gives back. She can't allow herself to pretend this a second chance.

"Is that whatcha doin' back here? Sleepin'?" Daryl snarls and she flinches, buffeted by the hasty frustration in his words. "Is that whatcha were doin' that night out by the car?"

Carol raises a stiff hand and through tight lips pleads, "Daryl, don't. Please."

Relentless, his voice cracks with his counter, "Why?"

"This isn't the time or the place," she grinds out as quietly as she can. (The time and place are nothing but long gone dreams.) Safety calls to her from just across the uneven floor in the even darker stalls.

"Ya came after me today." His previous gruffness is smoothed over with gratitude and he drags a finger over his cigarette burn before latching those penetrating blue eyes onto hers. The small gesture makes her heart hiccup. "Don' think I ain't comin' after ya."

It's the well-placed threat that does it for her, the promise that he'd repay her kindness. The wooden wall supports her momentary slump and splinters prick her fingertips as the first tears fall. Salty smudges shine on her cheeks when she wipes them away. "You don't have to. You _shouldn't._ "

With a full breath, she stalks out of the stall to the darkest corner of the barn. Here, the warmth of the fire is nothing more than a wisp on the wind. She leans further from it, goose pimples on every inch of her skin. Lightning flashes and highlights all the unevenness in the wood grain, the pathetic pile of hay and an old blanket.

She should be angry when Daryl's soft steps approach not a moment later. (After all, how many times does she have to refuse to talk before he gives up? Isn't he supposed to be a good listener?) But now she is only a scared, trembling mess. Ghosts long held at bay now claw at the base of her skull.

Carol buries her head in her chest. She is just going to disappear, so any kindness to her is wasted and misplaced. He should be out there, soaking in the warmth, helping the others heal, bouncing Judith, or keeping his sharp eyes on the threats outside.

That is where he belongs.

"Go back with Rick and everyone else," she tries.

"Ya gotta feel it, whatever it is."

She could deal with anger (Ed had taught her well.) but not pain. Not the anguish twisting his low voice into nothing but a chopped scratch in her ears, because that meant he needed her and she couldn't have that, couldn't leave him in need. Like her, Daryl was driven by the protection of others, of providing. She refused to be a distraction to him when the others deserved him so much more than she did.

"Are you going to just repeat my words back to me?" The ragged edge to her words cuts both of them, scalding and blindingly painful. As she tries to accept her justification for her cruelty (His safety, his peace) he picks at his frayed pocket, eyeing her with bone-chilling fear, like he is watching her fall from a cliff and has missed her flailing hand by inches.

In a hoarse whisper he says, "I ain't good...sorry, but, sometimes ya gotta listen to yer own advice."

Her foolish attempt at anger goes as quickly as it came. After a lifetime at the receiving end of real resentment, Daryl clearly sees through her farce. She drops it and pleads, "I can't, Daryl, please. It'll destroy me."

His eyes are wet when he kneels in front of her, struggle hindering every motion. Daryl brushes her hair back, shaking. "I'm sorry," he says again, and she wants to scream at him until he can't stand to be around her. She wants to lean into that burning touch and back away at the same time (Hadn't she said there was nothing in her left to burn?) "Shoulda said something sooner."

Carol's head shakes in long swings, denying the apology, because it was her own choice to not talk about it.

Two tattered breaths later, he kisses her forehead. It's only a clumsy slide of lips against hairline, a whisper of hot breath along her scalp, but it sends a cracking tremor rattling through her bones. She instantly roots herself before him, fingers jammed into the earth to stop them from chasing that precious, forgiving contact.

"Whatever happened on the road, with the girls..."

"You don't get it," she whimpers, her last defense coming apart in spalls as he crosses his legs and settles in front of her, hands gentle, so gentle, on her shoulders. The spot on her forehead smolders and she shudders with the sensation.

"Try me," he demands, the feather light pressure from his thumbs enough to completely smother her flight instinct.

Carol shudders as her heart punches her chest relentlessly. (Why, after weeks in his own silent hell does he insist on diving into hers?)

It's wrong, it's too late for this, for her. Only more pain will come from this. Rejection too, because who would want to deal with _this_ while still recovering from his own misery? But it's all coming up before she can stop it, powerless against this horrible skill he has of reaching the deepest part of her soul and forcing her to look at it.

"You think I'm harboring just some guilt about losing the girls. But it's more than that." Carol gags over the thought of the words ( _I killed Lizzie_ ) and clamps a hand over her mouth.

Daryl hums mournfully in the back of his throat as he catches the first tear on her chin.

"Beth died, you feel responsible," she starts, a knife twisting in her gut as she compares the two events. (It is inexcusable, but he has to understand, has to know. _They are different_.) She rocks and sways, the rest of it working its way up from its cage. Slowly bubbling, building, until it's a frothing explosion. Floundering, Carol shoves him away, horrified with the idea of him touching her when she bursts, "But you weren't the one who pulled the trigger!"

The air freezes, the storm outside descends to a murmur, then it's mute. Her eyelids shutter slowly, the blurring vision comes after like a thick cloud. If she felt anything before, the ground beneath, the cold darkness, it flashes into numbness.

Face twisted (but not enough to miss his horror), she folds on herself and plummets to the earth.

The howl that rips through her is nothing but a primal, hateful, black thing that contains all her anguish. It is sharp and jagged and it cuts her heart and throat on its way out.

Sophia.

Mika.

Lizzie.

The innocents she was responsible for and let them fall.

Each repetition of the names a thousand bullets to her heart, shredding whatever was left in her center cavity.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she's aware that her cries are too loud and without a doubt have awoken the others, disturbed their peace. At the same time, she is unable to reel in the pain.

She's trapped in a deep downward spiral when a raspy "Come 'ere," pierces the darkness. The arm automatically draped across her shoulder, a taut safety line. Her free fall suspends jerkily.

She doesn't shatter.

It's impossible to when she's pressed up against his chest, held together in Daryl's arms, his palms hot and calloused on her clammy skin.

Another torrent of tears dribble down her cheeks, her chin, leaking through her fingers. Everything is so raw, the jab in her heart, the impact her chest takes with the memory of the gunshots.

His heartbeat is erratic under her ear. Even though Daryl drew her close, she holds her breath, waiting for the aftershocks, waiting for his processing and the unavoidable eruption of anger, surprise, and disappointment.

Shaking with tiny, uneven sobs, Carol waits for her safety line to be severed.

Daryl finally shifts and she releases him, preparing for his departure to the peaceful people just feet away. Her hollow husk quivers, threatening to fall apart (but she would not blame him). As much as he wanted to help, nothing could have equipped him to deal with this. But now that it is out in the open, now that he knows, he is the only thing holding her together.

Instead, he pulls her further into the old stall and dips his forehead to touch the top of her crown.

She floats in disbelief, lips parted, heart stuttering.

"Daryl..."

"Hush. I gotcha, Carol," he murmurs hoarsely, and she can do nothing but latch her broken self to him.

All she knows then is the rough scratch of his beard at her temple, the earthy smell of him as she can't stop herself from nuzzling the crook of his neck.

She falls in between his legs boneless and unburdened, cradled completely.

Not long after, footsteps approach their stall but quickly retreat after a grumble Carol doesn't hear but rather feels though Daryl. That snarl is a protective warning, him being her first and only line of defense.

There is nothing she can do but lay against him limply.

It is a long time before the last tear drops from her cheek.

It is a long time before it registers that she is no longer cold.

A few times, it seems like he's getting ready to speak, but always ends up favoring the quiet. It's after these attempts that Daryl will move so she lays more comfortably, or a nervous hand makes its way up and down her ribs, to eventually relax on her waist.

Her world outside of him slowly come backs to her, piece by piece. The rafters rattle. Rain found its way under part of the barn wall and collects as a brown puddle in a low spot.

Carol flexes her fingers and bites the inside of her cheek, but does not taste blood. Wiggling her toes, she shakes off the numbness, one straightened joint at a time. Without it, she flinches, her heart still stinging from carrying that secret for so long. But deep inside, something glows. Nothing much more than a spark, a starting point. Carol hums, poking at it curiously, then almost laughs; as it turns out, there were coals buried under her ashes after all.

Tentative fingers clench and free the fabric around a button. Daryl pats and then encases her searching hand.

Somewhere, someone chuckles and Judith cries out once.

The smoldering logs rise back to life as Rick jabs them with a stick.

The barn creaks, buffeted by a gust of wind, but continues to hold them all under its roof and walls.

Carol untangles herself from Daryl and wipes her cheeks. Through the slats, she can make out the rest of her family. Michonne's and Carl's sleeping forms. Glenn is on watch now, Maggie's chin has fallen to her chest. Just out of sight, Sasha mumbles and shifts and falls silent.

Carol sighs, pleased by the peace, even as her spine reflexively bends to stay out of sight. Her confession sears like a brand on her skin, and she inches back into the shadows.

Daryl's rises to her shoulder then.

After another glance at the group, she looks back at him with a weary question.

"Don' have ta go. We can stay back here."

She smiles weakly at the mutual pronoun, a simple reaffirmation that they were in this together, the healing _and_ the pain. She then frowns for trying to deny that for so long.

Through her lashes she notices how the shadows highlight the sharp lines of his jaw, his chest. Her own skin sings with how good it would feel to lay against the hard planes of his body. Startled, Carol drops her eyes and kicks aside that particular glowing coal inside her, its heat too blistering for her drained and exposed heart.

For now, she lays next to him in the straw, far from the others. Daryl does his best to wipe away the dust collected on the wet lines trailing from her eyes. There's a long rumble from outside, the storm crawling its way across the sky. It soothes her in the same way Daryl's low drawl does, reassuring her that struggles pass.

No doubt it will take time for her to rekindle her fire, but now she knows where to start: With him.

Just like before, on the grounds of that other barn, in the wake of her first little girl.

With a sniffle, Carol reaches out and grabs his left hand, careful of the burn, and presses it to her lips.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** For those interested, this takes place in the same universe as my story "Georgia."

And now I have to rant for like, two seconds, so feel free to skip the next paragraph!

I. Flipping. Love. This. Episode. It's beautiful. I remember the first time I saw it, the only thing I wanted was a Caryl scene to cap the episode. I mean, it starts off with Carol telling Daryl to feel it and that conversation sparks his mourning. (And I'm sorry, but Daryl ran off to mourn his loss in front of a barn?! My heart!) She hints again that she's carrying something and I thought it would have been lovely if he would have tried to help her. (Which I do think he tried to, because I'm convinced she was the one he looked at when he disagreed with Rick about them being The Walking Dead.) But I'm greedy and wished for something a little more concrete.

Anyway. I really miss the 5th season. Thanks so much for reading!-randomcat23


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